Letters

I am reading this book, Which Brings Me to You by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott, that is hitting too close to home for me at times. Basic premise -- this man and woman meet at a wedding, and have an instant connection, but decide to write to each other and confess to each other. With each letter there is an unfolding and deeper connection to each other. It is totally voyueristic to read and thrilling.

Some passages that totally get to me:

"My own kind. I am not sure there is a name for us. I suspect we’re born this way: our hearts screwed in tight, already a little broken. We hate sentimentality and yet we are deeply sentimental. Low-grade Romantics. Tough yet susceptible. Afflicted by parking lots, empty courtyards, nostalgic pop music. When we cried for no reason as babies, just hauled off and wailed, our parents seemed to know, instinctively, that it was not diaper rash or colic. It was something deeper that they couldn’t find a comfort for, though the good ones tried mightily, shaking rattles like maniacs and singing “Happy Birthday” a little louder than called for. We weren’t morose little kids. We could really be happy.

Once there may have been an early tribe of us. We’d have done alright at cave wall art, less so at hunting. We’d have only started a war if traumatically bored. (Boredom is our most dangerous mood.) But most likely we broke up and scattered. The number one cause: over-whelming distraction.

A wedding is the worst scenario. We’re usually single—surprising, I know—and least comfortable when socially required to say Awww, about kittens, sure, or greeting cards, and, in the present case, horrible toasts where weepy accountants say things like: To the happy couple. Reach for the stars! Weddings are riddled with enforced awwwing."


And here is a part from a letter:

"I’m not sure what to tell you. This is a weirdo scenario we’ve gotten ourselves into. There’s no present-tense relationship to pad the wreckage of the past, no body language to read, no domestic clues to inspect (for me it goes: CD collection, bookshelf, refrigerator, mattress, not necessarily in that order.) no first awkward meal with friends. No first night together, no first morning, no first fight, or reconciliation. I have no idea how you spend your days, or where you live, and, most important, no clear sense of what you’d order at my favorite taqueria, or whether the menu (a field of faded Polaroids taped to the front window) would enthrall you as it does me.

What’s even weirder: I can’t bring myself to disclose this thing—whatever it is, a written audition, an extended power-flirt—to the appropriate confidants. It feels too intimate and fragile, maybe even desperate. And yet I find myself working on these letters at all hours, skipping brunches and movies. (Already I’m blowing off my friends for you.) The mail has become this major event. I count the days between letters. It’s like I am in prison…… And beneath all this fancy throat-clearing, here’s what I really want to say (as much to myself as to you): Don’t stop. I mean it, Jane. Ever famous case of love boils down to reckless honesty. That’s what’s happening here, I think. We’re both smart enough to know this might not work, probably won’t. But that the chance to tell the truth, the whole truth, the whole truth, doesn’t come along too often."


I have not even finished it, and already its picking away at the places I slapped that band aid on. I have always been a big letter writer -- I have one amazing friendship because of it. Two times other than that it was more. Neither ended well at all, but it was still thrilling. Sending the words and waiting on singing pins and needles for the response. It is the best anticipation I have ever had in my life. The one with the bookstore guy was kind of epic. Well, that is being kind of pretentious there, eh? But it was big. I mean I sent a letter to a stranger and addressed it "To the man in the jaunty cap". And it got to him. It was one of the bravest things I have ever done romantically. I had a few of those customer to cashier small talk chats, but nothing more. He was a complete stranger and would never know me if we passed on the street. Unfortunately, he was in a relationship, but he continuted to write. And it was secret and scary and felt forbidden and maybe a little dangerous. We never met, and he faded away to Rhode Island of all places, and told me we could not write again. The letters, this blind correspondence is a shield I use. I can be thrilling, honest as painfully possible, and maybe even a little beautiful with my words. In person, I fumble, and am seen for my physical presence which can block out anything that my words would have portrayed. Plus I snort when I laugh, and its kinda off putting really. Reading this novel is feeling that all over again, and I wish I had someone to write to again in a way. Be honest and ramble, and just lavish in the words and discoveries that can exist.